Beaten By An Old Heart

This is the first time I've gotten old (I think)
and I assure you, they never tell us
about the wrinkled nebulæ
that spin out of limbs.
They leave out the mind
that seems to be on its own,
going to some exotic way-station.
They don't tell us is that
our ancient years are spent
subtracting, taking away
the pleasures one by one.
My legs show worms of blood
my face has new shoots
the eyes, where the sharp planets
used to lie, turn soft intergalatic dust, now.
at night all night long love
my heart babbles to me of gone loves,
racing with excitement and regret,
my heart is beating me to death.
On my stone, they'll write
"Beaten by his heart,"
and the space between my thoughts
will be found in the closets
where they hang to dry
all my tangled memories.